Things became so much worse, if that were possible, after Passchendaele. The unit's CO had been killed with so many others. His replacement was a humourless Prussian officer with a fanatical desire to win an Iron Cross. He often led sorties to the enemy lines in that pursuit, which were indeed brave but verging on the foolhardy. In order not to expose his men to unnecessary danger, he put his raiding parties together only from volunteers and the forced Belgian workers.
On one hand this meant that Anthony had more opportunities for handing his reports over to Allied soldiers, if he were careful. On the other hand, his life became significantly more risky. He didn't much rate his chances between the British machine-guns and the danger of being seen delivering intelligence by his German captors. In fact he had begun to think that, perhaps, it was time to return to his own army. The voice inside his head saying that that was cowardice stopped him. He was still providing useful information; he should stay, no matter the danger.
A little further down the line, a new consignment of pistols had gone missing. It was feared that they had been taken by some of the press-ganged locals in preparation for a mutiny. A search of all the workers' personal possessions was ordered. Without any warning or explanation, the officers moved the men out into the trenches while they examined their dugouts, beds, and kit bags.
NCOs were ordered to seize Anthony while the Prussian officer approached him, holding his Intelligence Corps uniform.
"So, you are a spy."
Anthony's face was blank, unreadable.
"No, sir. I found it near the enemy lines. It was in good condition, I thought the cloth would be useful."
"Really." He took Anthony's revolver out of his kit bag. "And this?"
"It was with the uniform, sir. I...I didn't want to be unarmed if the British attacked. Truly, that was the only…"
"And the letters in English?"
Anthony tensed.
"Those letters...are personal. They and the photograph are all I have left of her."
The Prussian chuckled coldly.
"Everything so easily explained. Well, you can tell the court martial your little stories. Take him away."
Of course the court wasn't going to take any chances. Better to execute a worthless, if innocent, Belgian peasant than let a potential spy live.
It was deemed a more effective example to the possible mutineers to cast Anthony into No Man's Land in a German uniform with orders issued to a sniper to shoot him if he attempted to return, than to put him in front of a firing squad which was just too quick. But to make sure, as he climbed out of the trenches and began walking away, the sniper was told to shoot him in the leg. Anthony was then urged with several bullets aimed close behind his feet to drag himself through the mud far enough away so that it was almost certain that he would be finished off by the Allies or bleed to death. Either would do.
.
"'Ere, Sarge, there's a Bosch walking...well, lurching...towards us!" cried the duty lookout.
The Sergeant gave it a squint over the top of the trench.
"Bleedin' Nora! There is too. Is he waving a white flag or anyfing?"
"No, Sarge."
"Then blow 'is bleedin' 'ead off. God alone knows what 'e's tryna do. He could be stuffed full of grenades!"
The Corporal, who wasn't a sniper, took aim and fired.
The German was spun around by the force of the bullet, and fell.
The Sergeant patted the lookout on the shoulder.
"Well done. Good lad."
.
Anthony came to that night. There was a screaming pain in his thigh, and an even worse one in his shoulder. He was in No Man's Land, in more senses than one, balanced between life and death. He looked up at the stars. He prayed silently to a God he didn't believe was listening. He so wanted the pain to stop. Perhaps he could try to move...at this distance he'd be seen as a threat and he'd get the English to do what the Germans thought was too merciful...or he could just quietly die here. Immediately, he thought of Edith. Edith! My wonderful, lovely Edith! I want to live, I want to return to you, my darling! I don't want to die. I want to live for you!
"Hello?" His voice cracked and broken, hardly above a whisper. "Hello? Can you hear me?" His words were getting stronger with use, with determination. "Hello? Please! Anyone speak English?"
"What d'you want, Fritz? Do you want us to put you out of your misery?" A weary, but not hostile voice.
"No! Please, just listen. I'm not German, I'm English. My name is Major Anthony Strallan, Intelligence Corps. I've been behind German lines collecting information for, well, longer than I can remember, since the beginning of the war anyway. I was discovered yesterday and sent out here to die. All I want is to reach your lines without being shot again. Will you let me do that?"
There were hushed voices. Someone ran off. Then more talking, and a louder, more commanding presence addressed him.
"I'm the CO here. What's your name?"
"Major Sir Anthony Strallan, Intelligence Corps."
"Who's your CO?"
"Colonel Maresfield."
"Tell us something to prove you're English."
He was too far gone to curse at the man's caution and too far gone to think straight. But he tried.
"Um...well, I was born in Yorkshire, at my family's estate. I went to Harrow, then Cambridge…"
"Which college?"
"King's"
"What's the name of the Prince of Wales?"
"Edward, known to friends as David."
"That's good enough for me. I'm going to come over there. Stay absolutely still while we search you. Sergeant, you come with me. Fisher, you stay there and keep your rifle trained on him. If he moves, shoot him."
"Yessir."
The two men approached Anthony, who kept as still as he could.
"My name is Captain Wright."
"Thank you for believing me, Captain" said Anthony.
They rummaged around his uniform and found nothing.
"Can you walk, do you think?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure, Captain."
"Very well. Sergeant, take his good arm. I'll sort of prop you up this side. Once we're back at the trench, we'll call for stretcher-bearers and we'll get you to a field station."
"Thank you both, again."
"Don't thank me, sir, I was the one wot ordered the lookout to shoot you" said the Sergeant.
"You...ah" Anthony grimaced in pain, "you did your duty, Sergeant. I...could've been carrying explosives."
"Well, that's wot I fought, sir. And I didn't have time to find out."
"My apologies, gentlemen, I think I'm going to…"
And Anthony passed out.
.
When he woke once more it was daylight and he was on a cot. His shoulder was on fire and he couldn't stifle a groan.
"Major? Try to stay still. Your shoulder will hurt until we can get you to the hospital. We've run out of morphine" said a nurse brusquely, and then added "I'm sorry". Even in his current state Anthony could hear that the nurse's impatience was not directed at him, but was born of frustration.
It hurt so much that he could easily have cried. Why didn't I just let them shoot me? he thought, it would all be over by now. Then thoughts of Edith once again crowded his head and heart...her chestnut eyes, looking up at him with admiration and love on Downton Station...her sweet voice declaring boldly that she loved him...her breathless beauty as she accompanied him to the concert in York. She won't want a coward. Be brave and prove you deserve her.
He took a deep breath to steady himself.
"Very well, nurse. Thank you."
"Do you feel up to some beef tea?"
Amazingly, Anthony thought that he did. He took some more deep breaths to steady the pain, then the nurse held the cup for him while he drank.
"Thank you, nurse. That was rather good, the best thing I've eaten for nearly three years." Anthony settled down once more, as the nurse smoothed the sheets.
"I think you are the bravest man here" she said, rather more softly. "I wish I could dull the pain for you."
.
From there he was sent to a bigger field hospital, and then back to England. Everything felt so rushed, and he didn't want to cause more work than was necessary for the doctors and nurses many of whom, he knew, were volunteers and working under enormous strain. But with every passing day, his strength returned a little more, and his need grew, a need so pressing that it was, for him, more important than eating or drinking. So when he was settled into an established military hospital prior to an operation on his shoulder, it was with enormous relief that he asked one of the nurses to write a letter for him.
17th May 1918
Dearest Edith,
I am back in England, for good I think. I was wounded about a week ago, but don't worry: I am on the road to recovery. I have to have an operation but then, once I have recuperated, I shall be returning to Locksley.
I hope that you have fared well. I expect that you have been snapped up by some dashing young officer by now, and I congratulate him with all my heart if he brings you happiness. You are a treasure that I know I am not alone in appreciating.
Nevertheless, if you can bear to meet me, I should be honoured to hear about your experiences in the last few years since we last met.
Your
Anthony
Of course he wanted to ask if she was still single, and if she was, he would beg her to marry him! Of course he wanted to tell her that only the thought of her kept him alive in the night mud of No Man's Land with bullets in his leg and shoulder.
But the gentleman in him couldn't do it. He could not presume. He would reopen their friendship gently, so that when she had to tell him that she was engaged or married to someone else she could also do so gently